


Warpaint

by TerrusDacktellus



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: 1k promptathon, F/M, Mentions of Death, Violence, general vampire things, references to murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4692386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerrusDacktellus/pseuds/TerrusDacktellus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike and Dru help each other apply make up before a night out, sometime in the 70s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warpaint

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt on Tumblr: "Spike and Dru helping each other apply make up" - from popdroppopcandy

Back when he was alive, the only men who wore make up were poofs, which, in retrospect, Spike found pretty fucking stupid. He’d learned the power of image since dying, learned how to weave clothes and dye and paint into armour. Dru giggled joyfully as he picked up his eyeliner and sat on the edge of their bed to apply it. Amazing, the power of a little, black pencil to make his eyes a little darker, a little madder. 

Graceful as a swan, the burning star of his unlife mirrored his movements on her own face, tracing a finger along each eyelid and then back underneath as he did, even though her hands were empty. The make up was entirely in her head but she described it so wonderfully that he nearly thought he could see it. 

“It’s like stardust, my face paint,” she said, that swaying in time to the singsong lilt of her own voice. “The blood of a dying star poured out into my hands. Shall we drink the stars tonight, Spike?” 

“The stars, the moon and the streetlights too, my dark turtledove,” he growled, catching her hand and nuzzling his face into marble skin of her wrist. Dru leaned close and inhaled deeply, her nose nearly resting in his hair. 

“Shan’t after all,” she said and he looked up at her in surprise.

“What’s that, duckling?” he asked, then closed his eyes as she rubbed her thumbs hard over them, smearing his eyeliner. 

“I smell hunting,” she purred. “Hunting and catching and killing. Oh, Spike, my Spike, you’re going to make such a lovely mess.” 

The words were familiar, a tune in his head that’d been played many times before. She’d said something similar to him the night he’d done that Chinese slayer in. Quick as a flash, he pounced, trapping her hands in his and pinning her slender body beneath him. 

“Drusilla, what have you seen, you clever, wicked girl?” he demanded, rubbing his nose playfully against hers. 

She wriggled under him and the hard points of her breasts brushed against him through her thin nightgown. 

“Warpaint,” she said by way of an answer. “My boy needs warpaint.” 

He let her up and sat still as she reapplied the black pencil, laying it on thick, then watched with interest as she took a safety pin from his shirt. 

“What’s that for, sweets?”

“A pretty piece of silver to hold your head together,” she explained and drove it neatly through his eyebrow. Spike hissed in pain, but he liked the feel of it, liked the idea of Drusilla’s mark plain on his face. 

“Do you think they’d hold my head together?” she asked, tugging contemplatively on the other pins on his shirt. “If I had enough of them, Spike, would they keep my brains inside my head?”

She suddenly sounded plaintive and small, like a little girl and Spike’s heart broke for her for the thousandth time. What a terrible fate, to be mad and aware of your madness.

“No need to worry about your brains, my bloody chickadee,” he said, taking her in his arms. She tucked her face against his chest, eyes closed like a sleeping child. “They’ll stay where they’re meant to, pins or no. And what very pretty brains they are too.”   
“Am I pretty?” She knew the answer, but Spike could no more refuse her then he could cut off his own hand. In fact, cutting off his hand would nearly be easier. 

“The very prettiest,” he swore. “The most beautiful nightmare ever to stalk the earth.”

“Oh,” she sighed, relaxing again. She was still for a moment, then her eyes shot open and drank in his face. “Time to go to war, my pet.”

If it had been capable, Spike’s heart would have started thudding in excitement. 

“What did you see, Dru?” he asked hungrily and her delicious laughter rang in his ears, like bells swinging in a storm. 

“I see my naughty boy rushing through the bowels of the earth, fighting Death herself and taking her skin for his own.” 

Spike’s arms clenched around her and he gave her a good, hard kiss. “Will you come with me?” he asked, although he’d already half guessed the answer. 

“I cannot,” she said. “Not nearly time yet.” 

He nodded, having expected that and reached for his jacket. He’d dumped it over Drusilla’s breakfast, a slender boy just recently dead. On a whim, he dipped his fingers into the gaping wound in the torn neck and painted the blood over her waiting lips, staining them an attractive red.

“There,” he said. “Warpaint for the both of us.” 

Drusilla licked her lips and laughed again. “Come back wearing bats wings, my pretty Spike, or not at all,” she called after him as he headed for the door. Like many of her pronouncements, he couldn’t make head or tail of it, but these things had a way of making sense after the fact. He’d understand it later, he knew.


End file.
